Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

A couple of nights later, I hear a change in the air. My runic ears—I retrieved them soon after we restarted the march—pick up on a shadow in the wind on the far horizon. It's as if the world ahead has been split into two by a great gap of silence.

When dawn breaks, a sudden fear comes over the march, for now we can see it. A triangle of gray rises above the horizon. The color is brighter lower down, more reflective. It's been melted. The reflectivity is due to the smoothness of the stone.

By midday, a small black curve appears upon the slope. This rapidly expands: now it's a circle, now a tunnel.

That, right there, is where the black dragon melted its way into the mountain. And it's still in there. Just in there, maybe a little below.

“I'll kill you,” I whisper.

A cold wind blows from behind, takes my words and carries them forward. A thrill runs through Gutspiercer into my right hand and from there up into my heart and guts.

Soon it will be time.

A mound appears upon the horizon and sighs of relief run through the Association of Steel. Wharoth breaths the longest sigh of all. A cloud of cold steam rushes out his helmet. The walls surrounding the mound are whole—there's no smouldering ruins here. Heldfast Hill is intact.

This past week, more than a week, has been one of the most exhausting marches he's ever undertaken. Certainly it's the most exhausting he's ever led his guild on. The white plain seemed endless. A few dwarves have fallen from cold and exhaustion already; just a little longer and they would have started dropping one by one. No longer were they an army, but a mere crowd, and one on the edge of dispersal.

But now, finally, some succor. Wharoth orders the pace of the march increased and the guild is happy to obey. The thought of beer and warm meat is like a magnet for them.

The dwarves here will drive a hard bargain—Wharoth has heard rumors of their greedy, immoral ways, but he thinks he has enough gold to buy a good amount of supplies, and perhaps news too. Xomhyrk's force may well have stopped by here for their own restocking and repairs.

The Association is greeted at the gate by stern guards, in armor adorned with gems that glitter palely in the sunlight, but the guards' expressions soften when Wharoth tells them that they are on their way to the dragon. They lead them through gladly.

“Are we the only ones to come to your realm recently?” he asks as the guild is led down a neat tunnel.

“No. There was another force, bigger than yours. Of just over two hundred.”

Voltost looks sidelong at Wharoth with a worried expression.

“Just two hundred?”

“You talk as if you were expecting more. Did you know them?”

The dwarf they are talking to is a fairly senior runeknight, whose steel armor has at least a hundred precious stones of varied colors embedded in it. The runes scratched into each accentuate the poem on the steel without being an intrinsic part of it.

“We knew a force of at least five hundred left Allabrast to hunt the dragon,” says Voltost.

“Five hundred, you say? Led by a dwarf called Xomhyrk Dragonslayer, by any chance?”

“Yes!” says Wharoth. “They were here?”

“Indeed. But they left over a week ago.”

“Ah.”

“Were you seeking to join them?”

“Yes, and we still are. A week, you say?”

Wharoth is keeping his voice calm, but his heart is beating rapidly. Could Zathar already be at the dragon, if he hasn't perished already?

“That's right, a week. But the Mountain of Halajatbast is more than two weeks' march north, and longer in winter—well, perhaps not in this strange winter, but still—so if you hurry, and they decide not to attack immediately, you have a chance to meet them.”

“I fear they will attack immediately,” Voltost says in a low voice to Wharoth. “We shouldn't stay the night here. We should buy our supplies and leave as soon as we can.”

“The guild needs rest.”

“Xomhyrk's force will not be resting.”

“Let me think. We will see what supplies there are, then I will make a decision.”

“Very well.”

Later on, they sit down for a simple meal of beer and bread with pork sausages. It has cost them dearly—the hill dwarves justified the high price by saying the fee was also for the use of their hall. Wharoth knows he is being ripped off, but the warmth and smell of sausages is too good for him to care too much.

He asks many questions of the runeknights here. For more golden wheels he learns that the dwaves of Uthrarzak have likely lost to the black dragon, and that it is now resting and drinking in their power. He is told that Xomhyrk faced the humans and won, but also that many of his forces are deserting him.

Eventually Wharoth manages to work up the courage to ask about Zathar:

“Was there a somewhat strange dwarf with him? He has a black beard and blue eyes. He's tall for one of us, about as tall as you are, though slimmer. He wields a warpick—'

“Ah!” says one of the hill dwarves at the table. “Yes, the dwarf with the warpick. Zathar! That was his name.”

“He was with Xomhyrk?”

“Yes, he was. Got into a bit of a fight didn't we?” The gray-bearded dwarf and another next to him who can only be his younger brother, or maybe son, laugh hard. “Turned out fine in the end though.”

“Was he injured at all?”

“A little battered, but no worse than anyone else. Helped kill a human wizard, they say.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. And he was strange just like you say. He stripped down to just his clothes and dived into a snowdrift. Said he wanted to reflect on cold.”

Voltost gives a chuckle. “Sounds like the sort of thing he might do.”

“You're sure he was uninjured?” Wharoth asks.

“Yes.”

“So he left with the rest of them?”

“Indeed, with his armor colder than it was when he arrived by a good mile. Diving into that snowdrift did him good, somehow.”

“What about the rest of the dwarves in his guild? Our guild.”

“When I went down to the forges, there were quite a few in the part we gave to them. If I was to guess, I'd say they fared better than most of the guilds with Xomhyrk.”

At that, the other dwarves of the Association begin to ask after their friends, but it seems that Zathar and a few of the senior dwarves were the only ones to make much of an impression. Then the dwarves of the Association ask for confirmation about the strange ways of the hill dwarves. They are rightfully shocked that the dwarves here sell their crafts, and a fight nearly breaks out.

Voltost breaks it up. Wharoth cannot really concentrate on anything. He's too happy by far. His guild is well! Zathar is alive, and Braztak and Erak also!

This is a great omen. But Wharoth knows he can't let his happiness affect his decision. His guildmembers may be alive for now, but that will change once they reach the dragon. He comes to his final decision: they will not rest here for long, but leave only a few hours after they finish their meal and buy the rest of the supplies they need.

An odd feeling comes upon him, the feeling that he has just made the most important decision of his life. Yet whether it is a good decision or a mistaken one, he cannot tell.

Over the horizon, a slight rise. It heightens rapidly as the sun sinks and Vanerak's force speeds toward it. Before long they can see the encircling wall and the tall-ballista towers jutting from the top, whose mechanical sentinels are pointed away north, in the direction of the dragon.

Nazak accelerates to come beside Vanerak.

“What is it?”

“The traitor and whoever he's with will have stopped at this place.”

“Yes, that's more than likely.”

“So this is a chance to get detailed information.”

“That is my intention.”

“Let me extract it for you! The dwarves here are soft, greedy. I have heard rumors that they sell their crafts to the highest bidder. Anyone with enough gold can become a runeknight here. They are not hard, like us. They will break quickly.”

“You plan an assault, do you?”

“Not an assault. Just a simple abduction. The guards posted out front will be senior runeknights, for theirs is an important task. Nine of us can overwhelm them easily. Or even just one or two. Then we can tear their secrets from them.”

“Or we could just ask.”

“Ask?”

“The possibility that they might welcome us did not occur to you, did it?”

“Why would they welcome us?”

“Because they are enemies of the dragon, which we have come north to slay.”

“Ah. Ah, I see.”

“There are better ways of getting what you want than brute force.”

“Of course.”

“We wear runes of power, but that power is best used only when needed.”

“I understand.”

“Think on this.”

“I shall. And I apologize for my foolishness.”

“Good. Now get back in line.”

Nazak slows and slinks back. Vanerak focuses front. Two runeknights are already moving out to intercept them. As Nazak predicted, they are senior runeknights. Vanerak holds up a hand to order his dwarves to slow.

“Halt!” says one of the two, a third degree in ill-fitting steel adorned very garishly with gems. “Who are you? What is your business? Why do you not show your face?”

“My name is Vanerak.” He does not announce his title—he does not want to intimidate them.

“And your business?”

“We travel north. We seek the black dragon.”

“Ah! More dragon slayers.”

“Indeed. Have there been many?”

“Two armies so far—small armies, though.” He frowns. “There are only ten of you.”

“We are strong. As a runeknight, you know that quality is of far more worth than quantity.”

“Well, indeed. We believe Runeking Uthrarzak, or at least a large force of his, made an attempt on it recently as well. He would have brought numbers. I do not think they counted for much, though.”

“Oh?”

“The weather has stayed unseasonally hot. The dragon still lives, our elders think.”

“I think they are correct also.”

“You have come for supplies, no doubt. We will be happy to provide for a fair price.”

Vanerak shakes his head. “We have all the supplies we need. We can travel fast. Perhaps on the way back we will stop here to celebrate.”

The runeknight frowns. “Then why have you come to Heldfast Hill?”

“We seek information. We were late in setting off, and wish to the know the disposition of those who've already come. Their numbers, leaders, ratio of degrees. Military information.”

“I see.”

“Can you provide?”

The runeknight looks at his partner suspiciously, but the other dwarf, in gilt titanium decorated with sapphires, just shrugs, and says:

“We can provide—for a price. We've already said too much for free.”

“Of course. Nazak, give him some gold.”

Nazak walks forward quickly and gets out a small purse from his supply pack.

“How much?” he asks.

“What coinage do you have?”

“Allabrast golden wheels.”

“Rather impure, but acceptable. Twenty and we'll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Twenty?”

“Yes, twenty. Like I said, Allabrast gold is not worth so much to us. It is diluted, usually with silver, sometimes even with copper, then plated over to hide the impurity.”

“Twenty is acceptable,” says Vanerak. “Nazak, if you will.”

Nazak takes a few coins out of the purse, puts them in his pack, then hands the nearly full purse to the runeknight in titanium and sapphires.

“Purchase accepted.”

“Thank you,” says Vanerak. “How many dwarves were in each force?”

“In the first force, a little over two hundred. In the second, less than one hundred.”

“Degree ratio?”

“Better in the first than the second. The first army's commander in particular was very impressive.”

“His name?”

“Xomhyrk Dragonslayer. Have you heard of him?”

“It stirs a couple of memories, yes. Though I have never met him in person.”

“Well, he looked to be as strong as a Runethane. If not quite as strong as our Runethane,” the dwarf adds with pride.

“And who led the second force?”

“I can't recall. Belaryk, you spoke with him, didn't you?”

“Yes,” says the first guard. “He was a second degree called Wharoth. No second name, of course.”

Behind the mirror-mask, Vanerak's eyes widen. So Zathar has come north.

“Wharoth!” Nazak exclaims.

“Do you know him?” asks Belaryk.

“He is a firm friend of ours.”

“That is good news. His army was exhausted. He would be happy to have friends as powerful as you join him.”

“Happy indeed,” says Vanerak. “You have given us excellent news. Well worth the price.”

“You are welcome.”

“When did they come?”

“You just missed them. They passed back out the gates not three hours ago.”